


I Wanna Keep It Formal with You

by Trigonometrical



Series: let's freak it out and spread it around [2]
Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottoming from the Top, Cock Rings, Dom/sub, Humiliation, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Public Humiliation, Sexting, minor daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 15:46:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20117566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trigonometrical/pseuds/Trigonometrical
Summary: Pat, from what Brian can see of his screen, was about three minutes behind everyone else—apparently abandoning the script when curiosity got the better of him. He can almost hear the narration playing in his head as he watches himself and Adam flit around the kitchen. And then Pat gets to the egg rice, too, and—Oh, daddy . . .Pat’s eyes go wide and he barks out a startled laugh that’s closer to a horse whinny than any laugh Brian’s ever heard from him before. He rips out his own earbuds and gives Brian the finger. “Oh, fuck you,” he says.Brian smirks and raises his eyebrows. “Is that any way to speak to your daddy?”





	I Wanna Keep It Formal with You

**Author's Note:**

> Of course there was always going to be a sequel where I flipped the script, natch! This actually moves away from _daddy kink_ pretty early during some scene negotiation, and transitions into a more "straightforward" D/s scene.
> 
> Title from ["Mr. To You" by Dorian Electra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3GkLpu2kSOU).
> 
> _No first name basis it’s not like that_  
_I want you on the edge don’t relax_  
_Don’t get way too casual, casual_
> 
> _You can call me mister, mister, it’s mister to you_  
_Don’t get it twisted, twisted don’t get confused_  
_I want you to listen, listen I thought you knew_  
_It’s mister to you._

The_ Breath of the Wild _episode of Unraveled takes longer to edit than Brian had thought. Though why he’d thought that, he doesn’t know, since they had multiple cameras and over eight hours of footage. It skips one Sunday release, then another when the closed captions transcription takes almost an entire workday. But on a Wednesday, the edit is done, and Brian can’t wait another week to post it. Antsy little thing that he is.

Plus.

Brian isn’t typically _horny on main _at work, regardless of what his videos may suggest. And honestly, he’d be a super bad content creator, not to mention employee, if his number one priority was to embarrass Pat with this video—but he’s. Well. He’s even more invested in this Unraveled than he usually is. Which is to say, he drops the video, tweets a couple times to promote it, interacts with Adam on social media, then pops in his headphones to ignore the skittering lightning of anxiety in his fingertips as he sees Simone open the video on her computer.

Normally, the day before a video goes up, the entire video team gathers together to preview the content. The team members make editorial suggestions and provide other feedback. But they’d still been busy catching up after E3—and the video was thirty minutes long, good lord. So Simone had deleted that meeting from their Google calendars with the message, _I trust you, Brian, your videos are always perfect,_ which had made Brian blush down his chest. And then she’d sent him a Hangout chat that said, _also, now that we’re union, if you fuck it up it’s not my problem_, which had made Brian laugh nervously and scamper to the vending machine for another Diet Coke.

Blessed Saint Clayton, though, had previewed the video during a lull in his day and offered a couple pointers. But he’d echoed what Simone had said—_it’s good, you know what you’re doing with Unraveled now and this is pretty much a formality_.

(Clayton had also messaged Brian on Slack, _did you tell Pat you’re hoisting him up the flagpole_, to which Brian had replied, _Oh, absolutely not, friendo_, to which Clayton followed up with, _>:D_)

Brian knows when Simone gets to that part in the video because—well, it’s hard to avoid her wonderful honk-laugh, even with the _Into the Woods _soundtrack blasting through his headphones.

“PAT. RICK. GILL.” she crows, reaching across her desk to slap Pat on the arm. Brian casually takes out one of his earbuds. “You horny old fuck.”

Pat glances up from his monitor. “Is this about anything in particular,” he says wryly, “or just a Wednesday morning observation?”

Simone flashes a grin at Brian, turns and raises her eyebrows at Pat. “Oh so you haven’t watched our lil dumplin’s video yet?”

Something in her tone gets Pat’s attention. However, it also gets the attention of the rest of the Polygon office, who are pretending to be busy to varying degrees of success. “No?” Pat says. If he were an anime character, there would be a giant sweat droplet on his forehead. “I was gonna finish up the _Luigi’s Mansion 3 _script first.”

“Suit yourself,” Simone says flippantly, and now the rest of the office isn’t even pretending anymore, they’re all clicking over to the Youtube channel. People watch the videos the day they come out, but well—not typically all at once.

Brian bites his bottom lip to keep himself from smirking and jams his earbud back in.

It’s interesting, watching the reaction ripple across the office like a tidal wave. Brian pinpoints down to the millisecond when each person reaches the beautiful egg rice tableau. Petrana giggles and stuffs her fist in her mouth to stop laughing; Karen rolls her eyes; Samit huffs a laugh that’s just a big puff of air out of his nose; Jenna chokes on the sip she’s taking from her klean kanteen.

Pat, from what Brian can see of his screen, was about three minutes behind everyone else—apparently abandoning the script when curiosity got the better of him. Brian taps his fingers on his keyboard without pressing any of the keys and watches Pat out of the corner of his eye. He can almost hear the narration playing in his head as he watches himself and Adam flit around the kitchen. And then Pat gets to the egg rice, too, and—

_Oh, daddy . . ._

Pat’s eyes go wide and he barks out a startled laugh that’s closer to a horse whinny than any laugh Brian’s ever heard from him before. He rips out his own earbuds and gives Brian the finger. “Oh, fuck you,” he says.

Brian smirks and raises his eyebrows. He thought of a line like a week ago that he’s been waiting to use ever since. “Is that any way to speak to your daddy?”

Simone _loses it _and breaks the sound barrier with her honking. Cass quips something that is probably hilarious but that doesn’t carry over the cacophonous noise. Petrana covers her eyes with her hand and shakes with laughter at her desk. And Pat—

Pat’s face is flushed a magnificent red, bright and warm and the kind that would spread down to his navel, if Brian were able to see it. He’s laughing too, so Brian knows Pat isn’t actually upset—not that Brian thought he would be, otherwise he wouldn’t have done this in the first place. But even from his place down the row of computers, Brian doesn’t miss the way goosebumps fleck on Pat’s arms. Or the way Pat’s bouncing on his toes like there’s an excess of static electricity building up in his body.

Pat only meets Brian’s gaze for a second before darting his eyes away, saying something to Clayton about _throwing me under the bus, I thought we were bros_.

Brian holds up his fist for a bump, which Clayton meets with his own. “One can have many bros,” Clayton intones sagely.

“Yeah, Pat,” Brian says, sounding like the smug bitch that he is. “We’re all bros here.”

Pat has the self-preservation and good sense to leave it there and grumble about returning to his only TRUE friend, Gooigi. But Brian sees his fingers shaking as Pat pushes some of his hair behind his ear.

Brian grins and heads to the vending machine to give Pat a break.

\---

It’s nice to be the one doing the flustering for a change. Pat takes charge by hovering, by getting close, by bowling Brian over with his body and with Brian’s own emotions. When Pat is distant, Brian shuts down—he needs to _feel _and be overwhelmed. He panics when too many of his senses are taken away, or when Pat leaves the room for too long and Brian waits and aches.

But Pat thrives on little touches of artistic flare with long stretches of silence in between. Seeds sprinkled throughout the day but otherwise left untouched:

Brian grabbing Pat by the wrist at the Keurig, moving Pat out of the way so Brian can get to his half&half in the mini fridge

Brian clearing his throat and shaking his head when Pat fidgets and taps his pen on his desk

Brian making a disapproving face at Pat’s lunch—a lukewarm Hot Pocket at 2 p.m.

Squeezing his shoulder. Fanning the flames of conversations about Pat’s alleged daddy kink on Slack. Winking at Pat every time he passes Brian’s desk.

At one point, Brian texts, _how’s my baby doing with all this attention_, and Pat gets so rattled that he has to take a lap around the building.

Nothing, on its own, is so far out of the ordinary that it would garner attention. All a typical day for Brian-and-Pat, the worst kept secret in the office, an HR nightmare who flirt like they mean it and bicker like they don’t. But by the end of the day, Pat looks like he’s about to jump out of his skin. He keeps bouncing his foot on the floor, which makes his entire row of computers shake on the desks.

They’re two of the last people at work, as per usual, when Pat starts packing his stuff. Brian does too, makes an obvious show of it for Pat’s sake. Truthfully, Brian had finished like thirty minutes ago and had spent the time playing doing a picross on his phone, but.

Pat holds the elevator door for Brian even though he’s visibly sweating. Brian stares straight ahead until the doors close, like they’re in the fucking _Matrix _or something.

“What time does your stream start, again?” Brian asks, cocking his head to the side to look at Pat, finally.

Pat flinches at the sudden noise. “Um. Eight?”

Brian hums. “So it should be done by ten, yes?”

“Well, sometimes—”

Brian leans in whipcrack-fast and brushes a soft kiss to Pat’s jaw. Pat inhales, staggers backward a step like he’d locked his knees. A rookie mistake. Brian grabs Pat’s wrist, ostensibly to steady him from tipping over, but they’re both aware of what’s going on here.

“You know it’s important to go to sleep early, baby,” Brian murmurs. He tucks a strand of hair behind Pat’s ear with his other hand. Looks over him appraisingly. It’s all for show, but Pat’s eating it the _fuck _up, his mouth parted, breath hot and wet.

“I have big plans for you tonight,” Brian adds. “End the show by ten.”

Pat stifles a whine, and Brian fights with every cell of his being to tamp down the bubbling lust roiling under his skin—they’re still at work, Jesus. “Oh—oh, okay,” Pat says.

Brian raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Just keeps a tight hold on Pat’s wrist. Squeezes a little. Until he can feel Pat’s heartbeat thrumming under his fingers.

“I mean,” Pat amends, “Yes. Daddy.”

It’s not real—not yet, at least—and Pat’s whole face scrunches up like he wants to positively _die _but also maybe _come in his pants_. But Brian smiles a smile that he can feel is all teeth, a shark smelling blood in the water. He squeezes one last time, then lets go when Pat bites off a groan.

They’ll get there.

\--- 

They don’t—well, that’s a lie.

Other than the occasional _daddy _stuff, they don’t really do any hard lifestyle BDSM shit. Pat had stammered for a solid ten minutes when Brian had admitted that he’d been to a BDSM dungeon with a previous partner, gotten tied up in a chest harness that had made him weak in the knees. But mainly they roll with the metaphorical punches and see where they end up. They have safewords of course, and have used them when things became overwhelming. But Pat could also have texted Brian, _hey, actually I’m not feeling this_, and Brian would text back, _sure thing, bucko!_ and then continue like nothing had happened, and probably Pat would rail Brian into the mattress later.

But the thing is. The thing is, Pat doesn’t text that. He’d let himself be prodded all day, then mercilessly mocked on Twitch for a solid ten minutes. He’d even said the words again when someone tipped him enough. Brian had texted, _that’s my little whore, _then clicked away from the stream before he could see whether Pat would check his messages while streaming.

Brian had fed himself and Zuko, trimmed his mustache, showered, kicked Jonah’s ass in a round of Smash. At thirty minutes left in the stream, Brian had tuned in again, pleased as punch that Pat appeared to be wrapping it up, or doing his best to wrap it up. Even ending early, it seemed. _Such _a good boy.

Heat pools in Brian’s gut as he skips down the stairs to catch his bus. He arrives right after ten p.m. and texts Pat to let him up. Pat must have been waiting by the door, or else he leapt over a bannister and sprinted down the stairs, because he opens the door like ten seconds later.

“Buzzer still broken?” Brian asks, slipping in past Pat.

Pat grumbles as he lets the door swing shut. “Yeah, fucking pig landlord doesn’t think it’s a priority— which like, it’s not, but it’s also annoying in a fourth-floor walkup.”

“Want me to get my guillotine ready?”

_“Please_.”

Brian chuckles and kisses Pat on the cheek, then his nose, then his lips. He smells clean and minty, like his nice aftershave and toothpaste. “Mm, someone spruced up for me.”

“Yeah, I—” Pat fidgets, rubs the back of his neck. “Wasn’t sure what you were going to want.”

“I want you,” Brian says. He pauses, looks over Pat in his soft, comfy t-shirt and knit shorts. He must have changed after the stream, ended with enough time to prepare. “And,” Brian adds, “I also want you to walk up the stairs first so I can look at your ass.”

Pat huffs. “You’re nothing if not predictable.”

“We’ll see about that,” Brian says, making a gesture like _up you go! _He can’t see what his own facial expression looks like, but it must be predatory again because Pat’s breath catches. Pat recovers quickly, but still needs a gentle shove from Brian to start walking up the stairs.

The apartment is quiet when they walk in, Brian two steps behind Pat. Charlie _mrow_s in their general direction from the couch but doesn’t get up. Brian bows at him, a flourish of his hand, and resolves to pay his proper respects later. When his dick isn’t half-hard in his pants.

Pat is slipping off his Tevas in his bedroom doorway as Brian brushes past him. “Is Quinn home tonight?” Brian asks.

“No, he’s dating someone new so I haven’t seen him in three or four days,” Pat says. Then adds, with a chuckle, as he climbs on the bed. “I hope she hasn’t, like, murdered him.”

“In _this_ economy?” Brian manhandles Pat into place, semi-reclined against the pillows up against the wall. He straddles his lap but keeps their hips apart. “Oh good,” Brian says once they’re both arranged, limbs in the proper spots, “then you can be loud.”

Pat’s breath hitches against Brian’s mouth. His hands settle on Brian’s waist, fingers trilling faintly against the fabric. Brian deepens the kiss almost immediately—there’s been like twelve hours of foreplay today and he’s gonna vibrate out of his skin if they don’t get this show on the goddamn road. Pat’s mouth is open and lush underneath him, his tongue sliding along Brian’s with little grace, just need. Brian tugs at Pat’s bottom lip until he whines, then sits back, wipes his mouth.

“Are you going to yell for your daddy, hmm?”

“Oh, hey, can we—um, not _daddy _this time, I don’t think I can—” Pat breaks off to pant as Brian attaches his teeth to Pat’s collarbone, then shrieks when Brian sucks, hard. “_Sir, please_.”

Brian hums against Pat’s skin, laves his tongue over the reddened flesh. He can work with that. He mentally deletes some subsections from his outline for the night, adds some others. “Oh, that sounded _fantastic_, sweetheart,” Brian murmurs into Pat’s clavicle. He leans back, cups Pat’s jaw in his palm. “Thank you for telling me what you need. Are you gonna keep being good for me?”

Pat wriggles, his shirt riding up to his armpits. “Yessir.”

Brian hums again. “Are you sure?” he asks, like they’re discussing if Pat knows whether it’ll rain later. “You were pretty bad all day. Working me up at the office, looking so flustered and ashamed like you did. Couldn’t get anything done.”

Pat’s fingers twitch against the bedsheets. “But, you—”

Brian raises his eyebrows to his hairline, which cuts off Pat’s protests. “I did what?”

“You were teasing me. Sir,” Pat tacks on after a pause, like he forgot. Brian doesn’t call it out.

“_I _was teasing _you_?” Brian asks, pitching his voice into haughty incredulity. “I think we remember the day differently, baby. You looked like you needed me to beat your ass in the single stall every time someone snickered in your direction. It was very distracting, Patrick.”

“’M sorry, sir,” Pat says—and oh goody, that one was a little closer together, a little more real. Excellent.

“I guess I underestimated your stamina,” Brian says flippantly. “Thought you could handle being flirted with all day. Though I don’t know why I did. We all know what they say about older men and their—” Brian looks pointedly at Pat’s dick, pressing hard through his shorts, a wet spot growing near the fly— “You know.”

Pat blushes all the way down to his belly, which Brian has to kiss when he sees it. He slides off Pat’s lap as he goes. There’s the perfect angle, from the side, where he can tongue into Pat’s navel and lay kisses along his hipbones. “How do you have the best tummy in the whole world?” Brian hears himself ask—which okay, isn’t strictly in-character, but sue him. It’s true. He recovers with, “It’d look even better covered in your come.”

“Please,” Pat whines. He pets at Brian’s hair then pulls his shirt off.

Brian sits up on his knees and _tsks_, pulling off his own shirt, flinging it halfway across the room. “If I let you come now, that’ll be it, and you’ll be no use to me the rest of the night. I’d rather guarantee that I’ll have a good time, too.”

It’s a bluff. Brian’s so hard already, his shorts uncomfortable and tight. But Pat nods his head furiously. “I won’t come, I promise,” Pat says.

“I don’t know that I buy that,” Brian muses. He slides off the bed to rummage round in the “discreet” shoebox underneath until—_aha!_

His happy noise cuts through the sound of Pat’s feet scuffling against the comforter. Brian keeps one hand behind his back as he climbs on the bed again. The other he cups on Patrick’s jaw. Brian coos when Pat turns his head and kisses his palm.

“Oh sure,” Brian says, “you’d _try _not to come, but bodies do sometimes betray us. And I don’t want to punish you for breaking your promise. So I’m gonna help you instead.”

Brian, master of dramatic tension, pulls their metal cock ring from behind his back.

Pat lets out a plaintive _noooo_, but Brian shakes his head. “Patrick, I thought you’d be more grateful!” Brian exclaims, his voice sickly sweet. “This is for you, after all. You’re going to make me come three times, and you can’t do that if you have a spent, limp dick before we even begin.”

He pauses for a couple seconds, waiting to see if Pat will say the words that will stop this in its tracks. Pat doesn’t say anything, just pants and twitches against the bed as if invisible ropes bind him down, as if he couldn’t get off the train tracks even if he wanted to. Brian’s lips curl into a grin. “Now what do we say, Patrick,” Brian says, an echo of Pat’s words oh-so-many weeks ago now, “when someone offers us help?”

It takes Pat a minute to get his throat working, to make sounds come out that aren’t thready whines. “Thank you, sir.”

Brian beams. “You’re very welcome.”

\---

The ring slips on with only a little difficulty. Pat had chosen this one instead of an easier silicone one because he _liked the aesthetic_, which was such a Brian thing to say that Brian couldn’t argue with it. It’s stainless steel and glints in the soft bedroom light as Brian snaps the ring in place behind Pat’s balls, careful not to catch any of the fine hairs Pat had missed while shaving. “Keep that there,” Brian murmurs when it’s in place, as though Pat has a choice.

Brian sits back to survey his handiwork. Pat naked, skin flushed, cock already dark and full and trapped that way. There’s a slight sheen of sweat on Pat’s thighs, his stomach, his collarbones. Brian wants to lick the salty taste of him everywhere. But not tonight.

Brian shucks off his pants and underwear and leaves them on the floor near the foot of the bed. “I think the first time should be with your mouth,” Brian says conversationally. “It got you into trouble in the first place, after all.”

Brian holds out his hand like a prince waiting for his servant to kiss his knuckles. But Pat knows what he wants, grabs Brian’s hand and pulls with enough leverage that Pat can roll himself on top of Brian’s body.

Pat slides down and settles himself on the bed between Brian’s legs. “How would you like it, sir?” he asks, pressing gentle kisses to Brian’s knees, his thighs. His lips leave a wet trail in their wake.

“Mm,” Brian hums. “Fast, I think.” He puts one hand into Pat’s hair and moves Pat’s mouth closer to where he wants it. “I’ll take my time with you on the next one.”

Pat groans but gets right to work, and god Brian loves him, loves how it feels when Pat just fucking _goes for it _and swallows down his cock, no preamble, no finesse. It’s what he asked for, after all, but it’s so good when Pat chokes on his cock and still pushes forward until his nose is pressed into the hair at Brian’s groin. There’s a wet, sucking noise that’s filthier than it has the right to be, even given the circumstances. Pat pulls off with a gasp, catches his breath. 

“Again,” Brian says, and Pat does so.

It’s not long after when Brian comes, Pat using all of his best tricks one after the other to get him there. Brian’s hand clenches in Pat’s hair and holds him tight and fast while Pat works him through it, soft swallows and gentle laps until Brian jerks his hips back. He pushes away Pat’s head, breathes three deep lungfuls of air, and wipes some sweat off his forehead—but they hadn’t even gone long enough to work up a proper sex sweat.

“Holy shit, baby,” Brian says.

Pat looks smug as he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Brian lets him take pride in his handiwork, doesn’t follow his urge to slap the smirk off Pat’s face. Instead, he gathers Pat up in his arms and shifts them on the bed until they’re lying against the pillows—Pat on his back, Brian curled over his chest with one leg thrown across his body. He can feel Pat’s chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, still thrumming from the exertion.

“How was the stream?” Brian asks.

Pat chuckles. “Good,” he says. His voice sounds scratchy, overworked. When Brian pinches at his side, he elaborates: “I killed a bunch of demons with my- my giant sword, and honestly got killed even more—I’m not sure why people watch me play _Dark Souls_, I’m very bad at it.”

“You just like the fashion,” Brian says. He gently palms Pat’s cock, strokes a couple times to keep him hard. Pat whimpers and shifts his legs against the bed but otherwise keeps still. Brian rewards him with another stroke before he moves his hand away.

“Got several big tips, though,” Pat says. “I think ‘m close to the new lighting rig, which will fucking rock.”

“You’re going to be a YouTube Beauty Guru before you know it,” Brian says, trailing his fingers across Pat’s lower belly. “Telling me which matte foundation works best for my skin type.”

“It’s less about the foundation and more about washing and priming before you begin,” Pat says, affecting a higher, clipped tone. “And cleaning your brushes routinely.”

Brian slides his hand down to fondle at Pat’s balls, so swollen in the ring. He hates to admit Pat was right—the aesthetic _is _really good.

Pat chokes. “How was- how was your evening?”

“Pretty uneventful,” Brian says. He keeps his hand near Pat’s groin, fingers flitting, not staying in any one place or pattern. “Jonah’s still trying to main the Wii Fit trainer in Smash, so it’s almost taking the fun out of it how fast I can beat him.”

“I still don’t know why he’s doing that.”

Brian shrugs. “He’s developed some philosophy about all of the characters being equally good, but that people don’t take the time to learn them properly and _use them to their fullest potential_, so we think that they’re bad. And I’ve told him that it’s objectively not true, shown him the stats, but he got snippy at me and said, _well, we don’t all work in video games journalism_, so I’m letting him ride this one out alone. Personally,” Brian adds, scratching his nails up Pat’s thigh, “I think he just has a crush on her. He did have a Wii during the formative part of his childhood. And freshman year of college he spent a lot of time in the dorm, alone, with his balance board.”

Pat laughs. “Gross. I don’t even know what that would mean, but gross.”

“Best not to question it,” Brian agrees. He pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, gets his body straddled over Pat. “Good news: I’m hard again, so you don’t need to think about it anymore.”

“Yessir,” Pat says with a salute. He starts to move, but Brian pushes him down again.

“Don’t,” Brian says. He puts two fingers under Pat’s chin, tilts his face up into a kiss that lingers. “I want you like this.”

The lube somehow ended up in the drawer behind an old pair of Pat’s glasses, so it takes longer than Brian would have liked to locate it. But Pat still hasn’t moved when Brian returns, triumphant, his hands dutifully resting on his thighs where Brian left them. His fingers are twitching, tapping in a flurry, but he’s being a very, very good boy. Brian tells him as much, which causes Pat to blush and close his eyes against a smile.

Brian coats his fingers in lube and rubs them together. The new stuff they picked up is nice, satiny. Warms quickly to his touch and doesn’t feel sticky. It’s going to feel amazing inside him. He tells Pat this, too, and rolls with the motion when Pat’s hips buck into him.

“Please,” Pat says on a pant, “May I?” He reaches out his hand, asks for something unknown—lube, a bite, a kiss, Brian’s not sure. But whatever it is—

“No, you may not,” Brian says with a smile, firm but kind. “I just want you to watch. No touching.”

Brian plants one hand next to Pat’s hip, his legs spread over Pat’s knees, and reaches behind with the other hand. He starts fingering himself with two, already so worked up that they slide in with ease. The angle isn’t doing much for him, but it still feels good to open himself up, crook his wrist to get them as deep as possible.

It’s not long until he can slip in a third, which means that he can’t get as deep, but god the stretch is fantastic. He’s rocking back on his own fingers, his eyes closed. Pat whimpers underneath him, taking long, shuddery breaths each time Brian moans. Brian opens his eyes to find the lube, to add more so the slide is absolutely _sinful_. He leans forward on his elbow, his weight resting on the bed, his head lying sideways on Pat’s trembling stomach.

“Can’t wait to have you inside me,” Brian says, fucking his fingers in and out. “God, Patrick, want you so bad. You’re- you’re gonna make me come again.”

“Yes,” Pat gasps. “Please, sir, need it.”

Brian had intended to tease Pat longer, draw it out, but god, his skin tingles with the want—no, like Pat said, the _need—_to fuck him. He wipes his hand on the sheet then positions himself over Pat’s hips. Brian holds eye contact as he sinks down, until Pat’s eyes roll back in his head and he whines when Brian seats himself fully on his dick.

“Eyes open, sweet thing,” Brian says, and Pat complies. “You’re going to watch.”

It’s criminal how good Pat feels—so hard and thick inside him, almost the perfect angle from the get go. But that’s how it is when Brian’s in control, his legs bent underneath himself, providing wonderful leverage so he can lift a couple inches then grind down on Pat’s cock. It’s less like _fucking_, closer to _undulating_. Brian rolls his hips like a wave on the ocean, crashing against Pat’s pelvis until he feels caught up in it, like he’s drowning, like he can’t breathe, the pressure in his abdomen feels so good.

On one swift downward motion, Pat flails. His hands leaving his thighs to grab Brian around the waist. But Brian raps him on the knuckles like one of Pat’s grade school nuns, and Pat whines as he clenches his hands into fists on his thigh.

He’s a twitchy thing, his legs shaking where Brian’s pinned them together, but _oh _does Pat keep trying to move them anyway, bless him. His hips buck when Brian rolls his body—but each time he does, Brian moves upward, slower, farther and farther away from what Pat wants.

“_Please_,” Pat says, his eyes wide and pleading, his fingernails digging into his thighs. “Brian—sir, please.”

“You seem to be under the mistaken impression,” Brian says coolly, “that this is about you.”

Pat slams his eyes shut.

“That this is _for_ you,” Brian continues. “That what you want matters more than what you deserve. When really, you should be grateful for what I choose to give you.”

“Th- thank you,” Pat says on a gasp.

Brian rocks his hips back and forth, getting Pat’s cock right where he wants it, and god—he’s not going to last much longer, his hips are tight and straining. “For what?” Brian asks.

“For—_ah!_—for letting me fuck you.”

“And?”

Pat flicks open his eyes—pupils blown wide, tears leaking from the corners. He looks _beautiful_, fucked out and blissed and chasing his desire secondary to Brian’s own. His mouth drops open. His tongue wets his lower lip.

“For knowing what’s best for me.”

Brian comes for the second time with a shout. His dick spurts weakly as vibrations bubble up, prickling from his lower back to his scalp. He has a snippet of a thought about _the energy exchange in his pelvis _before it blinks out of his brain forever and he becomes come-dumb and loose-limbed, a heavy weight against Pat’s hips.

He doesn’t move. Just—settles. Wiggles his toes. It feels amazing to still be so full, oversensitive in a way that smarts a bit, but that makes Brian want to whine and twitch his way through it. Brian voices something close to _c’mere_, but Pat understands and lets himself be pulled into Brian’s embrace.

They kiss with Pat still inside him. The angle is sloppy and messy, Pat shaking and mumbling _fuck _and licking around Brian’s mouth. He starts to slip out and almost yells, but Brian shushes Pat with gentle fingers on his jaw as Brian lifts his hips the rest of the way off.

Brian’s body has almost hit its limit, so overstimulated that even the air in the room feels heavy and too much. But he’s right on the precipice of _one mo’ ‘gain_, and Pat does look unbearably hot, dick flushed and red, hands reaching to pull Brian in for another kiss. Brian siphons his last remaining dexterity into his right hand and fumbles around at Pat’s groin. It feels like forever passes before the catch on the cock ring releases, the ring falling with a _thunk _onto the sheets.

Pat gasps when the pressure is gone. He breathes deep from his diaphragm in an effort to stop himself from coming immediately, it looks like, trembling like a leaf.

But Brian doesn’t have time for that—he’s gonna lose the buzz if they wait any longer. Brian turns onto his stomach and grabs the lube, smears a handful of it messily around his hole. “C’mon, c’mon,” he mumbles, then clearer: “Patrick, you’ve been s- so good for me, baby. Good boys deserve a reward. But—” Brian gasps as Pat grips him by the hips, pulls his ass up until Brian’s knees slide underneath him— “but you better make me come first.”

Pat is nothing if not obedient when he’s like this. He’s brutal from the very first thrust, making Brian wail into his forearm when Pat slides deep and holds it for what feels like _hours _before snapping his hips in a punishing rhythm.

Brian is crackling livewires, is heat lightning, is static electricity incarnate. His ass burns but it feels so _good_ with Pat draped over his back, driving into Brian, forcing him to push through the oversensitivity and hover at the precipice. Brian strips his cock as Pat fucks into him. His fist flies, using sweat and come to turn the bad friction into something he can grasp and control. He can hear himself whining on each out-breath, pleas and curses and variations of _Pat! Patpatpatpat_.

Pat’s fingers slip where they grab at Brian’s sweaty hips. He’s gonna have bruises there, they’re gonna be incredible, he’s gonna be so sore tomorrow, _hell yes, baby, fuck me up right_.

Pat bites at Brian’s back and whines that he’s _close close, oh my god sir, please—ah! fuck_, and—

And Brian’s orgasm slams through him, unexpected in both its arrival and its ferocity. It _hurts_, almost, holy shit, as come dribbles from his cock. It’s like his fucking _spine _slams out of his body with how intense it is.

Brian jerks upward, both toward and away from Pat in the same breath. He’s glad that Pat shouts into his shoulder and comes soon after, his hips stuttering against Brian’s ass—because one more second and Brian might actually, literally, spontaneously combust. And he doesn’t want to end up in the E.R. on a work night for a sex-related injury. His co-pay isn’t _that _good.

Brian can feel Pat’s heart beating rabbit-fast against his shoulders, and if Brian were in his position, he would need to stay inside Pat’s body for at least three minutes before he could _think _about moving. But Pat is a scholar and a gentleman, so he eases out slowly, kissing down Brian’s back to lessen the sting. It still hurts like a motherfucker, unfortunately. If present-Brian were looking out for future-Brian, he’d run himself an Epsom salt bath posthaste. But, in his current state, he’s proud of himself for flopping onto his back, out of the wet spot, out of Pat’s way.

Pat flops on his back too, both of them gasping and panting and sweating all over the place, like an R-rated movie that jumps the fade-to-black to show you that these characters Have Just Had Sex. “Holy shit,” Pat says, listing his head to the side so he can stare at Brian.

“Holy shit,” Brian agrees.

“Sorry for being horny on your audio.”

“Mm, sorry for drawing attention to it.”

They’re silent for a moment. Brian counts out how many steps he’ll need to take to grab them both Gatorades and cheese crackers from the kitchen. Twenty-seven. He can manage that. He rolls his shoulders against the bed, grunts at the satisfying pop. Pat stretches his legs, wiggles his toes, his fingers. Somehow, he finds the energy (_bless his heart_) to prop up on one elbow, tilt his body toward Brian.

“So, what fucked-up shit should we do during the next Unraveled?”

Brian beams, renewed with enough vitality and vigor for ten men. He sits bolt upright. Pat at least has the decency not to call attention to Brian’s wince, the way he gingerly pulls the sheet over himself.

“Oh Pat Gill,” Brian says, “I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
